Chapter 10
TEN
Emmett
I’ve been at my dad’s for a week now, following all of his rules and guidelines: get up at six thirty, have breakfast with his perfect little family, go to work, come home and work on school crap, have dinner with his perfect little family, rinse and repeat the next day.
There’s no sign of him letting up – or letting me go back to my own place – any time soon, so I just roll with it and try to do what’s asked of me.
It’s uncomfortable being here with him and Rowan, mostly because I never really look at her as his wife.
My stepmom. I see her as my best friend, and as happy as I am for them, it’s still weird for me to see them together sometimes.
They don’t really have any books on ‘how to get used to seeing your dad kissing your best friend.’
Using my fork, I pick at the food on my plate; it isn’t that it’s not good, Rowan is an awesome cook. She could do this professionally and do really well with it. I’m just distracted.
I haven’t been able to get that interaction with Nash out of my mind, no matter how hard I try to distract myself from it.
If I get really lost in it, I can almost smell his cologne wrapping itself around me.
I can feel his body pressing into my shoulder and his breath, hot and light against my ear.
‘Do you want me to own you, pretty boy?’
A bolt of heat shoots down my spine as Nash’s voice replays in my head. My fork clatters to the plate in front of me and a slow, familiar pressure starts to build in my dick.
Not here, for Christ’s sake, I silently beg my body.
“You alright over there, bud?” Dad asks from across the table.
God, this couldn’t get any worse.
I feel like a teenager again, pitching a tent in the middle of social studies because the girl that I like just sat down next to me. All I need now is a poorly-timed voice crack and a set of braces.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I think I’m gonna turn in early. I don’t feel great.”
I carefully stand and grab my plate from the table, stack my silverware and glass on top of it, and ready myself to head out of the dining room.
“What’s wrong?”
“My stomach hurts,” I lie, probably a little too quickly for anyone to actually believe me. As I walk out of the room, I turn to his wife and add, “Thanks for dinner, Ro.”
She offers me a grateful and sympathetic smile with a tilt of her head, probably thinking that I’m about to go have an emotional breakdown or something, because Dad told her that he caught me drowning myself and now they both think that I’m some fragile, breakable thing that they have to tiptoe around.
I haven’t hauled ass from a room like this in so long that I’ve almost forgotten how to do it smoothly. Once I pass the kitchen, I practically speedwalk up to my room, shutting and locking the door behind me before I flop down onto the bed.
I’m not actually attracted to Nash; I’m as straight as a goddamn arrow.
I am not into men. I’m just going through something heavy and seeking connection with someone - anyone.
If I were seeing a therapist like Dad wants me to, they’d probably just charge me four hundred bucks an hour to tell me that this is a totally normal reaction.
I was left behind and he gave me attention, so my body is reacting because it lit up the reward center in my brain or something.
That’s all this is. It’s just some abandonment issue crap manifesting itself in a weird way.
Thanks, Mom.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I swipe through my home screen until I see the little flame icon that I’m looking for and I tap to open Tinder.
I don’t even bother reading the profiles or flipping through the photos, I just swipe right again and again and again.
My Uncle Davis would say that I’m trying to ‘DoorDash some pussy,’ and he would be absolutely right.
After swiping on probably thirty profiles, I set the phone off to the side of me and wait to hear the jingle that tells me I’ve got a match.
Ten minutes go by, and my dick is throbbing.
Aching. I check the time; it’s only a little after eight, not exactly hookup hours.
With a sigh, I slide my boxers out of the way and wrap my hand around my dick, using my free hand to pull up a good old-fashioned porn site.
I go through a handful of pages, each of which ask me if I want to sign up for a premium membership for the low, low price of nineteen ninety-nine a month. I pass on the opportunity.
After scrolling through way too many pages being way too picky, I finally settle for some homemade video with a clickbaity title that jumps straight into the action.
The couple is in missionary and the woman on the bottom already has makeup running down her face while she cries out her partner’s name.
It’s too late by the time my phone finally chimes with a match alert; I’m already pumping my cock in time with the motion of the hips of the guy on the screen.
He’s pounding into his partner so hard that she should be crying, but she’s eating it up and begging him for more.
I squeeze the head of my cock while she whines, joining her with a moan.
“Fuck,” I pant as the guy on screen shoves his fingers into her mouth and uses them to control the movement of her head, forcing her to look him in the eye.
“You’re such a pretty whore,” he tells her, and something tenses inside of me.
‘Pretty boy.’
Christ, get out of my head.
My hand moves faster as the sound of the video is replaced with Nash’s voice. The phantom weight of his body presses against mine, his rich cologne blankets me and I can feel his breath against my ear as he speaks.
‘Swallow it.’
I grunt and whine as every nerve in my body lights up, dropping the phone next to me as I pump my cock harder.
I brush my free hand through my hair as my head falls back, cursing under my breath.
Electricity shoots through my spine, practically forcing the oxygen from my lungs as Nash’s voice sounds off in my ear again.
‘Do you want me to own you?’
“Oh fuck, shit,” I pant. “Don’t—”
I moan loudly, pressing my free hand to my mouth to muffle the sound while my orgasm takes me, lighting me up from every angle as jets of cum shoot onto my stomach. My breathing is ragged and heavy as I come down, and intense pleasure is immediately replaced with confusion.
What the hell was that?
·
Another week passes with late-night Tinder visits from Eve and Zoe, and I’m bored.
It’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday night and the house is silent. There’s nothing to do but sit here and scroll online or find someone else to come over for a quick hookup, and neither of those things sound interesting right now.
‘I own everyone inside of my clubs.’
I wonder if he would be pissed if I played with his property, then.
Grinning, I hop off of my bed and throw on some fresh clothes, stopping at my nightstand to grab a condom and slide it into my back pocket. Before I leave, I spread a little pomade between the pads of my fingers and use them to loosely comb my hair back.
I did a little bit of research in my downtime; I know which clubs in the city belong to Nash Montgomery, and I know that they all operate on the fuzzy side of legal, Envy being one of the bigger offenders.
You wouldn’t know it from walking inside, though.
It looks as if it operates the same way as any other nightclub you might find yourself in.
Bright lights flash around the room, smoke billows up from a few areas where people are definitely not supposed to be vaping, and the loud bass of the music vibrates through my chest.
One of the club’s bottle girls walks past me carrying an empty tray over her head, and I place a hand at her waist to stop her.
“Who do I talk to about a VIP table?” I shout to her.
With a smile, she gestures toward a man at the far side of the room, who I assume is a promoter, dressed in a suit that doesn’t quite fit him right.
The sleeves are a little too short and the shoulders are a little too wide for him.
They’re small details, but I’m surprised they haven’t been corrected.
Nash doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who lets anything less than perfect slide past him.
“Emmett Fowler,” I introduce myself, offering my hand for a shake. “Got any VIP?”
“One,” he shouts, “gonna cost ya, though.”
Reaching into my pocket, I open my wallet and pull out a credit card, sandwiching it between my index and middle finger. I flash him the black piece of plastic. “Not a problem,” I smile as I slide it back into its resting place.
I normally don’t play the rich kid card.
It’s not one that I like to advertise, because it makes me look and feel like a giant douchebag.
The kind of guy who says ‘do you know who my father is?’ or ‘do you know who I am?’ But like I said, I’m bored, and I kind of feel like getting into some trouble tonight.
The guy nods and starts to walk, so I follow.
We move through the crowd of people, all of whom are drinking and sweating, until we reach an area roped off by stanchions.
As we walk, I keep an eye out, taking note of where each of the security cameras are placed – I know now that Nash likes to watch them.
Arrogant prick.
We finally come to a stop at an empty section, a table at the center surrounded on all sides by small lounge couches. There’s enough room for eight people here, twelve if you don’t mind crowding, so one guy buying the space is going to have someone saying something.
Good.
“Thanks,” I tell the guy, pressing a hundred dollar bill to his chest.
Go tell your boss I’m here. I’m sure he’s got a watch-and-report list in every one of his clubs.
While I wait for the servers to come, I settle back into one of the couches with my arms draped over the back of it and my ankle crossed over my knee, and I lean my head back. Bingo. Camera. I offer it a smug grin and a wink before lifting my head back up.